


i breathe him out so i can breathe you in

by Rinusagitora



Category: Bleach
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Badship, F/M, Fix-It, Reunions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-01
Updated: 2017-02-01
Packaged: 2018-09-21 07:29:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,564
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9537947
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rinusagitora/pseuds/Rinusagitora
Summary: He smokes out her misery.





	

**Author's Note:**

> At first, I just wanted to write some shotgunning, but then it spiraled into this.

It was a woozy, primal atmosphere. Music with deep basses and long riffs, lyrics lost in the noise, boomed from ruined speakers and it reverberated through her bones. The bar was lonelier, most patrons on the dance floor or in booths, which naturally included her companion. It was oppressively warm and rather stuffy between the sweat and smoke. She was grateful she’d not only dressed appropriately but was a heavy smoker as well, it would’ve been impossible to breathe otherwise. 

Though perhaps the weight of trial was the oppressive element. She had been under the perception that Sousuke’s incarceration would’ve brought her closure. Such wasn’t the case. Even as he was declared guilty on twelve counts of capital murder and two counts of battery-- she laughed as she recalled the prosecutor’s apology that he could only prove two. Like it was his fault-- she didn’t feel any different. Her heavy malaise still remained. Suddenly, loud noises still threw her into a panic. She was still without her family. Her social life didn’t exist outside of Rangiku and Nanao. Romance? Out of the question. And romance books only nauseated her. They only reminded her of him. She could still feel his smile -- the way it poured ice water through her veins….

Sousuke was gone. Her nightmare hadn’t followed.

Needless to say, she wasn’t in the mood to celebrate his incarceration. She’d just like to sleep. But Rangiku had been insistent they go out for girls’ night, even if Nanao was too busy at the prosecution's office. She’d never been able to turn Rangiku away. Perhaps it was that Rangiku was her responding officer that she felt so obligated to her. She technically was the first kindness she’d received since Sousuke monopolized her.

She swirled her cocktail, untouched, and gnawed on the cherry stem she’d tied in several knots over the course of her not-drinking. She had become a bit of a control freak over the years, grasping at the last vestiges of part of her Sousuke had yet to claim, thus alcohol and its dumbing effects was out of the question. She would rather go outside, away from the masses who'd probably heard of the scandal Sousuke had caused on the news or some exaggerated article in some tabloid, and have herself a smoke.

So she would, she thought as she spat out the mangled cherry stem. She sent a text to Rangiku she'd be on the roof and to message her when they were ready to leave. To her luck, it was deserted, though she'd had to squeeze past a younger couple who could not be bothered to find a bathroom stall to make out in on the narrow staircase up. She sat near the edge for the vantage to view the ethereal cityscape past the spaghetti bowl. The lights polluted the night sky, only the waxing moon and North Star visible. But the sky was diluted a pretty gradient of yellow-blue. She liked it. The city was full of opportunity Sousuke had stolen from her.

So she hoped.

She fished into her clutch for a cigar and matches. _Never lighter fluid,_ the memory of her grandmother’s voice echoed, _matches preserve the flavor._

Her muscles loosened with her inhalations. Though true relaxation was out of her reach, her tension replaced with clouds of melancholy. If she was not uncomfortable she was self-loathing and directionless.

It’d been almost eight years since she mustered up the courage after one of his rages to seek help. It was the hardest thing she ever did. Every numeral made her sicker and sicker, the short, covert conversation left her breathless and nauseated. She nearly fainted as he screamed at her when the police arrived. She couldn’t hear anything for days afterwards. 

Rangiku-- the officer who responded to her call-- made it easier. The gift basket she’d given her was the first thing she ate since Sousuke’s arrest, her voice was the first thing her to penetrate her stunned deafness. _Take it at your own pace,_ she said, _he’s not coming out for awhile. Never, if you testify, you know._

The idea made her want to weep. She loved Sousuke, she was a good wife and a good wife didn’t put her spouse away. Sousuke loved her, he wouldn’t have been so hurt if he didn’t. But she was at the end of her lengthy rope, there couldn’t be any other reason she called.

Still, she had not washed herself of him in that time, not even when all the scum had surfaced in the investigation that followed. It was nearly impossible to with all the press coverage. Of course the news had to capitalize on the deaths of twenty-four women and the unwitting wife of a serial killer. How was she supposed to know anything between his year-long cool off and the torment she went through at home? She could barely handle her own problems.

The prosecution had called it Battered Wife Syndrome, or something. She still wasn’t sure what she would call it. Hell, maybe.

At least the divorce was short.

Footsteps interrupted her reverie. She craned her head over her shoulder and saw a gangly gentleman with blond hair fallen over his eye and his arms folded in his jacket approach her despite the plenty of space the roof provided. Initially, she worried he recognized her, but that was impossible when she considered the darkness and the distance between them. He was probably liquored up and horny. Still, she wasn't in the mood for company.

He sat next to her wordlessly. She made no move to put out her cigar-- he had approached _her_ after all, so she assumed he didn't mind-- and turned her gaze forward before her eyelids fluttered shut. She wouldn't bother with an introduction unless he did. She was too damn tired for pleasantries.

“... a pretty girl all dolled up like you should be downstairs where the drinks are. Though, by your dress, perhaps a cabaret is more appropriate.” He said finally. Damn her luck.

Though, it was undeniable she was overdressed. Clubs, let alone the hole in the wall Rangiku dragged her to, had not been Sousuke’s scene. She didn't own anything for the environment consequently.

“Uh… yeah.” She responded. 

But he sounded oddly familiar, she thought at her lips pursed. She disregarded it as loneliness. She was an odd duck like that. For weeks after Sousuke’s arrest, she swore she could still feel his weight beside her before she went to sleep, even after she moved. She still could hear him enter the kitchen in the mornings for coffee only to find nobody there.

It was just as strange how her loneliness and fear of relationships cohabitated her condition. Prior to then, she didn't think such conflicted feelings could exist at the same time in an individual. Rangiku and Nanao promised her it was the idea she wanted, but she didn't wholly believe them.

“What're you doing up here, if you don't mind my prying?” He inquired. “You look like you're out for a night of fun, but you've isolated yourself up here.”

“It was stuffy downstairs.” She answered. She wished she had the heart to tell him to buzz off. Alas, she was a doormat-- to be used, to be abused, never the tongue to say no.

She wanted to go home.

The stranger hummed in response then. She was grateful he didn't press it. Though his eyes…. She could almost feel their blueness pierce through her flimsy excuse into her very soul. Those were knowing eyes. She didn't like how his gaze probed every inch of her, how it seemed to see even the most private parts of her. She felt a little bit like a frog in biology class, under that stare.

“I think that’s your friend crawling all over mine downstairs. That's why I came up here. I really didn't want to be around to watch that.”

Her brow arched skeptically. “Oh? How do you know?” She recalled Rangiku’s definite preference for women. She'd like to think the stranger wasn't as much of a dog to leave his lady friend for another girl.

“I saw you two come in together. She has a very distinct voice. Though my friend doesn't seem to mind.” He chuckled then. “He dragged me here to celebrate my _second_ doctorate degree.”

She smiled humorlessly. Rangiku had quite a presence. She just hoped her friend remained sober enough to keep her wits about her-- she would rather not have any incidents that may involve the criminal justice system after the most stressful _years_ of her life. “At least they’re enjoying themselves.” 

“Well, we certainly aren’t.” He said. “What’s your story?”

“Not particularly.” She frowned. She was too tired to launch into the last ten years. She was too tired to deal with the stigma media left on her-- how could she not have known her husband was a serial killer?-- too tired to tell him that she'd been too busy avoiding his wrath to have investigated why he was out so late _once a fucking year._

“I'm a certified grief counselor if that's any more persuasive.”

… it was. Nanao had tried for years by then to talk her into counseling. She'd not pursued it simply because she hadn't the time nor insurance that covered mental health. But there she was then, right beside one who’d offered a listening ear for no charge, and one who didn't know she was Momo Aizen once upon a time.

She uncrossed and recrossed her ankles in front of her. “Long story short,” she started with a puff of smoke, “I spent fifteen years undergoing systematic abuse, on top of the last eight years it took for my husband to be found guilty of murder.” There. That was vague enough. “The divorce was the easy part. The trial was terrifying, but I had Rangiku and Nanao to support me at least. The hardest part is trying to find some semblance of normalcy.” Her eyes watered, and she shuddered. “I've lost contact with my family. I don’t have my education. I don't even remember my childhood aspirations.” She burst into tears then. “He _wins._ ” She told him. “He always wins. I have his money, I put him in prison, but he still _wins._ I'm not happy. I hate myself. I just want to lay down and die. I don't know who I am without him. He was right when he said I'm nothing without him. At the end of the day, I'm dead inside. At the end of the day, I'm all alone. I have nothing.”

She combed her fingers through her ringlets. A breeze dried her cheeks as she sobbed. How shameful, she thought. Like she had any right to cry.

“The prosecution tacked some diagnosis on me-- Battered Wife Syndrome or something. But I loved him. He didn't need to coerce me into anything, either that or I didn't know. I stayed because I wanted to. I called the police because I needed to, it broke my heart to speak ill of him however true it was. I'm not a victim. I'm just a fool.”

Her companion was wordless and unreadable beside her. It frightened her as much as it was a relief. If it was something terrible, he was courteous enough to keep it to himself. But she couldn't take much more criticism. Rangiku made her promise to live, but by the way things looked, she may not be able to keep her word. Death seemed like the only true solace available.

She struggled momentarily with her clutch for her handkerchief. “I’m sorry. It's been a long day.” She blubbered as she dabbed her eyes. The fabric came back black with her mascara, and she cussed shrilly. She must look like a damn raccoon. It was one of the reasons she'd stopped wearing makeup-- she couldn't go a single day without ruining it because she never stopped crying.

The stranger beside her sighed. “Please don't apologize, Momo.”

Her eyebrows shot into her hairline. She'd not told him her name, and it wasn't like it was inscribed on anything. She was certain she'd been vague enough whilst she vent.

Unless he already knew her.

She felt so ill. She would _never_ escape Sousuke, would she? She hated the press for that. She might have to move the west coast to escape familiarity with him.

“... I should go.” She uttered breathlessly. She pushed herself to her feet, only for her companion to grab her wrist with a rather desperate expression.

“Don't,” he pleaded. “Momo, it's me. It's Izuru. We were friends in high school. You were on the tennis team and Renji and I would watch you practice before we’d grab a bite to eat at the diner down the street. You revised my first published work. We all thought this senior Shuuhei was the single coolest person to ever exist because he was this punk-ass kid was still so _nice_ to everyone. You were a senior prom royalty nominee-- I maintain that the only reason you lost was because Misty’s fucking posse rigged the votes. We were… we were friends. Don’t you remember?”

Her thoughts reeled as she stared into his eyes in stunned silence. High school was the last normal time of her life, for she had met Sousuke in college. She did remember because those memories were the only thing that made her smile, even if just for a moment.

She sobbed as fresh tears cascaded down her cheeks. He looked older, more handsome with his chiselled features and provocative blue eyes.

Izuru caught her cigar just before it hit her skirt. He pulled her into his lap,, held her tightly like she was some phantom who may vanish if he did not affirm her presence, and he kissed her tears off her honey-gold cheeks as if they did not taste of mascara. 

“I’m so sorry.” She wept. “I’m so _sorry._ I’m an imbecile, you guys deserved better. I promise it wasn’t any of you---”

Izuru silenced her drivel with a kiss. “Hush,” he said, “whatever you have to say, I know or you’re wrong. Just let me hold you….”

Still, she whined as his fingers held the hair at the base of her neck because it was all so unbelievable. Good things did not happen to her. She was a magnet for evil and misfortune-- she could not be still loved by someone she abandoned, she could not still be loved, she could not be in his arms…. 

Her cigar smoke wafted between them. Izuru took a long drag and puffed against her face. It made her shiver, it made her blubber like a child. But he pulled her close and breathed smoke into her lungs. Her eyes fluttered shut, even as the smoke escaped when he pulled away. She had long learned subservience, knew to be pliable to the whims of her lover.

But Izuru was neither, she thought. His hands were not hungry, his kisses not forceful. With every kiss, he smoked out all that loneliness and even made her misery cough. She would call that codependency, how his touch softened the hurt, but she could not be bothered to care when she had something so good in her arms. It was selfish but she had been selfless for a long time.


End file.
